Date: Sun, 18 Jul 2004 14:00:29 -0400
From: Owen Emm <owenmtheprofessional@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Professional, Chapter 2

The Professional

By

Owen M


Sorry it took so long everyone, and sorry it's so short - I wound up
splitting the original chapter into two separate postings so that I could at
least get something up this weekend.  Look for chapter 3 sometime next week,
since it's pretty much already written.

Thanks to everyone who's taken the time to write and tell me what they think
about my humble little tale.  I hope to hear from even more of you as the
story progresses.  Comments to owenmtheprofessional@hotmail.com


Chapter 2

	By the time Jon had bounded up the steps to his apartment, Elliott's
instant message was already waiting on his computer.  His part was simple.
All he had to do was to show up at the private terminal at the airport with
the money and his blood test around 4:30 the next day.  Elliott would take
care of the rest.  Jon might have raised an eyebrow about the private
terminal if he hadn't been captivated by the ten smiley icons at the end of
the message.  He stared at them for what felt like an hour before he was
able to pull his eyes away, a similar grin plastered across his face.  His
mind racing feverishly, he stood up and began to pace back and forth with a
determined stride.

	There was really no other choice now, he realized.  The indecision that had
plagued him for the last nine months had suddenly evaporated, his path laid
in front of him with no more time to stall and no more room to stray.  He
had made his commitment to Elliott, and to meet that commitment he would
have to put certain things into motion that couldn't be undone.  This would
have to be his last night in this hellhole of an apartment, of a city, of a
life.  Once he touched the money in that secret account, it's location would
be revealed to prying eyes, and a holy storm would descend upon him that he
couldn't possibly weather.  It wasn't the first time he had considered just
disappearing, starting over again from the beginning in a new place with a
new name.  There had been little else on his mind through those long months.
  But now, it felt like it was the first time he could actually do it.  The
fear that had gripped him with viselike jaws had vanished, replaced with a
giddy determination to face the unknown that Jon hadn't experienced since he
was a teenager.  Someplace warm, he thought.  Someplace I'll never have to
feel the bite of winter again.

	His feet blazed a path through the olive shag as he paced away the long
dark hours through the dead of night.  I can't go out to see Elliott looking
like this, he thought as he caught occasional glimpses of himself in the
cracked bathroom mirror.  I'll need some new clothes.  He'd like me to wear
something nice and classy without being too formal.  Actually, I guess I'll
need five days worth of clothes.  I can't just wear the same thing every
day, what would he think about that?  I'll definitely need a haircut and a
shave.  Maybe I should get one of those facials.  They have those for men
too, don't they?  I'm sure they could do something about my fingernails at
the same time.  I wonder if they have some kind of scrub treatment, one were
they could just scrape away all the grime that seems to be permanently
embedded in every crease of my body.  Is there enough time to whiten my
teeth?

	Elliott, he breathed softly.

	It was that voice, that sweet and innocent voice playing over and over
again in his head.  For the life of him, Jon couldn't remember a single
thing he had said to Elliott, but every nuance of every word that boy had
uttered was imprinted indelibly into his memory.  The bright tone when he
had first introduced himself, the quiet sadness creeping around the edges
when he had revealed that Jon had struck a nerve about Moon's business, the
dreaminess when he talked about making men happier than they had ever been,
the hopeful voice when he had asked him to come the very next day, the
disappointment when the money had threatened to tear them apart, the elation
when that barrier had been shattered.  He could replay every instant with
precise replication, as though he had a tape recorder built into his head.
I wonder what he looks like.  I wonder if he has the messy blonde hair and
wide, open blue eyes that I can't help but picture.  I wonder if his skin is
as pale I hope.  I wonder if his smile is as radiant as I imagine it must
be.  Bit by bit, Jon constructed a picture of Elliott in his mind as
detailed as a photograph.  Not that I'd mind whatever he looked like,
though, he kept telling himself .  It doesn't matter if he has dark hair,
eyes, or skin, or if he's not proportioned the way I'm envisioning.  No
matter what he looks like, Elliott cannot be allowed to see any hint of
disappointment in my face when I meet him tomorrow.

	Elliott, he breathed softly again.

	He kept on repeating the boy's name out loud, trying it out in different
voices.  Sometimes, his tone was playful, inviting him to play a game of
catch or roughhouse in the sand.  Sometimes, his tone was a gentle
reprimand, like a parent lovingly setting a child straight who's innocently
gone astray.  Sometimes, his tone was gentle and soft, comforting a best
friend in need.  Sometimes it was nothing more than a whisper full of
childlike wonder.  Speaking his name made it feel as though Elliott was
right in the next room, about to peek around the corner with a smile on his
face.  Jon would hold out his hand, expecting at any moment that the boy
would grasp it.  He would extend his arms in front of him, closing his eyes,
waiting to feel Elliott's arms wrap around him in a warm embrace.

	He imagined their first moments together, what it would be like to meet
finally meet him face to face, to hear his clean soprano voice freed from
the distorted tinny echo of the telephone.  For hours, he had contemplated
every moment of those precious seconds until every tiny detail had been
fully rehearsed.  The first thing he would do when he saw Elliott would be
to smile broadly and wave.  Elliott would undoubtedly do the same.  Even
though he wanted to run right up and lift the boy in his arms, whirling him
around madly, he decided instead that he would walk up to him at an even
pace, embracing him gently and tenderly for just the right amount of time
before looking deeply into the boy's eyes and telling him how happy he was
to be there.  That was it, that was as far as his imagination would take
him.  To think about anything beyond those moments felt like trying to
contemplate the nature of the universe, and besides, spending any time
thinking about what came next would only be a dangerous distraction.  After
all, if he bungled their first meeting, Elliott might decide that he didn't
like him, didn't trust him, didn't want to spend time with him.  I'm not
going to let that happen, Jon told himself resolutely.  Whatever it takes, I
will make a good impression, I will make him happy, I will make him love
me...

	Jon looked out the small solitary window in surprise when he noticed that
the colorless black of a cold winter's night had transformed to the gloomy
gray of a cold winter's day.  Never once through those dark hours had he
even considered slumbering, despite the fact that he knew he couldn't get
away with things like he could when he had been in college.   For the first
time since he had read Elliott's note and stared at his precious smiley
faces, he stopped pacing and with a calculated certainty began his
preparations.  Twenty minutes later, he stood in the open doorway, surveying
the aftermath of his rampage.  The computer had been reduced to a small pile
of electronic rubble, the hard disk battered beyond all recognition by a leg
of the shattered coffee table.  What few clothes he wasn't wearing were torn
up and stuffed into the toilet, hopelessly clogging it.  The apartment keys
had been tossed out the window to the trash-choked alley below with a
gleeful laugh.  It was immature to take revenge like this for the nine
months he had been sentenced to live here, Jon knew that, but it still felt
good.  As he took one last look around, he knew he should try to remember
every detail of this moment, that it would be important to look back on it
as a turning point in his life, but the last thing he wanted to do was to
remember this place.  He yanked the door closed as hard as he could, hoping
to pull it right off its hinges, but it defied him and did nothing more than
rattle the wall.  With a spring in his step he practically jumped down the
stairs, his feet only touching half of them, leaping the drunk sprawled over
the third floor landing in a single bound.  He burst out into the street,
the day somehow seeming brighter despite the heavy cloud cover and the
threatening flurries of lake-effect snow, setting off at a brisk pace on the
long walk to more respectable parts of town.  One by one he counted off the
blocks as he passed, places that he would never have to see again.

	He arrived at his destination with more than an hour to spare, so he ducked
into a small crowded diner, squirming his way into an empty seat at the
counter between two burly guys in plaid flannel shirts.  For a few moments
he contemplated the menu with the intention of ordering some cereal and a
banana, but when he finally got the attention of the single harried waitress
he wound up inexplicably asking for the trucker's special, a spread of food
he couldn't possibly hope to eat.  She filled his cup with coffee that would
have been better used to strip the paint from a car while he glanced at his
bare wrist impatiently, a ritual he repeated until he spotted the clock on
the wall.  When the waitress threw down four plates piled with every kind of
breakfast food known to man in front of him, he didn't even notice.  His
eyes glanced around the room, at the people in various uniforms, people in
suits, people in work-clothes, people who all had places to go and things to
do.  As often as he tried to tell himself that they were absorbed in their
own lives, he could feel their eyes boring into him, the accusing and
knowing stares stabbing into his mind.  He looked up nervously at the clock,
only thirty seconds later from the last time he had looked, which had only
been thirty seconds later than the time before that.  We know, Jon.  We know
everything...

	When the clock had somehow finally managed to slog forward to five minutes
to nine, he stood up suddenly.  Leaving the untouched food and a tip well
beyond his means on the counter, he slipped quietly out the door, crossing
the street and walking up the steps to stand in front of a stately building.
  Jon took a deep breath, gathering his strength, trying to find the
confidence he would need from somewhere deep down within.  It wasn't going
to be easy, he knew that.  It was never easy to get banks to part with
money, especially when it didn't even belong to them.  He fidgeted nervously
as an armed security guard opened the front door, his polite good morning
ignored as Jon pushed his way past him into the bank, heading straight for
the well-dressed woman sitting at the nearest desk.  He screwed up his
courage along with a condescending sneer on his face, hoping against hope
that they hadn't learned about this account, that it was still a secret,
that he make his escape before anyone was the wiser.

	"Good morning," Jon said haltingly, taking a deep breath.  "I'd like to
close my account today."  The woman took one look at him and politely
excused herself, returning with a man who was clearly the branch manager.
They escorted him quickly to a private office.

	"Mr. Mitchell, I understand you'd like to close your account."

	"That's right," he said abruptly.

	"May I ask the reason?"

	"Do I have to have a reason to want to close my account?" he snapped.

	The manager looked up sharply at him.  "Is everything ok, Mr. Mitchell?" he
asked in a concerned way, but Jon could hear a hint of suspicion in his
voice.

	"Everything's fine," Jon snapped back.  "I have a flight to catch and I
don't have time for this."

	The manager leaned back in his chair.  "Do you have some identification?"

	Jon rolled his eyes in annoyance.  "Of course I have ID," he said harshly,
pulling his driver's license directly from his pocket, throwing it on the
desk.

	The manager studied it carefully.  "This is a California license," he
remarked.

	"I'm a California resident," Jon snapped again.  "I travel a great deal, on
business."  He looked at the manager piercingly.  "I'm in sales."

	"I'll need some corroborating ID for an out-of-state license, Mr.
Mitchell," he said smoothly.  "Are you sure you're all right?  You look a
little pale."

	Jon fished into his pocket and pulled out a stack of small pieces of
plastic, dropping the whole pile unceremoniously onto the table.  He took a
deep breath, hoping the manager wouldn't investigate and find out that every
single credit card with his name on it  was defunct.  He tried to look in
another direction as the bank manager looked through them cursorily.

	"I'm sorry, Mr. Mitchell, we were concerned given your, well, your
appearance, that someone was attempting to access your account
fraudulently."

	Jon breathed a deep sigh of relief.  "I suppose I can understand that," he
said, trying to force his heart to stop pounding.  "I'm in a hurry, I'm
going to miss my flight."  The bank manager nodded, and hastily filled Jon's
request with profuse apologies.  Five minutes later, Jon pushed his way out
the building, his account emptied, a cashier's check for thirty-five
thousand dollars in one pocket nestled up to about ten thousand dollars in
cash.  His hand was shoved in the other pocket, wrapped nervously around
another check for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.  Not since he was
seven years old had he actually carried every cent he had to his name.
First thing, he told himself with a relieved smile on his face, putting as
much distance as he could from the bank, I need a wallet.

						*******

	Jon stared out the small airplane window at the lights spread out below,
picking out and naming each hotel on the unmistakable Las Vegas strip as
they made their final approach into McCarran airport.  Forcing himself to
breathe deeply, he picked up a napkin from the pile on his lap, trying
pointlessly to dry his sweaty palms once again.  His stomach churned as he
quietly thanked himself for not having eaten anything all day.  His eyes
flitted around the cabin, staring at the other spacious leather chairs, the
television he had long ago turned off, the well polished hardwood table in
front of him, the ignored open bar with the glasses that rattled every time
they had hit a small patch of turbulence.  It was the first time Jon had
ever been in a private jet, but it wasn't as much the fact that he was
flying in one that made him anxious as it was the fact that he was the only
passenger, that this entire display of obscene wealth was for him and him
alone.  As the plane touched down gently on the runway, the sudden
deceleration pressing Jon back into this chair, a far more powerful nervous
tension gripped him.  Any moment now, he'd be meeting him for real.
Elliott.

	As the plane came to a halt on the tarmac, the pilot that hadn't exchanged
a word with him other than to greet him by name when he had arrived at the
airport came out from the cockpit and opened the hatch.  Jon fumbled at the
seat belt, unable to work the latch, his hands shaking.  He had wondered if
Elliott was going to be on the plane as he had climbed the steps into the
cabin, relieved and disappointed at the same time when he found that he was
alone.  Now he wondered if Elliott was waiting for him at the bottom of
those steps.  Jon saw someone climbing into the cabin, his breath catching,
his hands freezing completely until he realized that it was a fully-grown
adult addressing him from the open doorway.  Jon allowed himself to breathe
again.

	"Mr. Mitchell?" the man said, not expecting to be answered.  "Jack Keller,
MGM resorts.  Welcome to Las Vegas."  Jon managed to unbuckle the seat belt
and rise awkwardly to his feet, allowing the man to shake his limp hand.
"How was your flight?"

	Jon stared, confused.  "Fine," he mumbled after a short pause.  The man
turned to descend the steps, Jon following him hesitatingly, staring at the
long limo pulled up directly next to the plane.  Someone was already putting
his suitcase into the trunk while someone else was holding the door open
while the man climbed into the limo.  His mind a complete blank, he followed
the man into the car mechanically.  It pulled away even as the door was
swinging closed behind Jon.

	"Mr. Mitchell, I'll be your casino host during your stay at the Bellagio.
If there is anything that you require, no matter what it is, day or night,
please feel free to call upon me or a member of my staff and it will be our
pleasure to serve you.  We're very excited that you've chosen our hotel
during your stay here in Las Vegas."

	"You're my what?"

	"Your casino host," the man explained with a smile.  Jon stared at him, at
the small gold badge on his chest with the familiar "B" logo, the name Jack
next to it.  Jack, that's right, he had said his name was Jack.  "I'll be
your liaison with the casino and hotel. If you need show tickets, dinner
reservations, or any special services, I'm here to make sure you get it.  We
want your stay to be as memorable as possible."

	"I have a casino host?" Jon asked incredulously, still not comprehending.

	"Of course, Mr. Mitchell.  You're a valued VIP guest of our hotel."  The
man seemed to enjoy Jon's look of utter astonishment.  "Your suite is
already prepared, and I believe you'll be happy to know that your nephew has
already arrived."

	"My nephew?"

	"Your nephew," Jack said, his voice just a little leading.  "You must be a
little jetlagged, I'm sure you remember that you had arranged to meet your
nephew at the hotel this evening."  Jon stared at him for a moment before a
relay finally clicked inside his head.  Nephew, that must be the story
Elliott tells everyone.  He looked across at Jack with narrowed eyes,
wondering how much he really knew about his "nephew."  Jack politely excused
himself and answered a call on his cell phone, leaving Jon to stare out the
tinted window as the limo threaded its way through the inevitable traffic.
While he really hadn't given much thought to the arrangements that Elliott
was making, having a private jet fly him to a waiting limo and a suite at
the most exclusive hotel in the city was so far out of the realm of
possibilities that he was having trouble grasping what was happening.

	It was a short drive from the airport to the Bellagio.  Jon watched with a
certain fascination as the limo passed the grand entrance where he had
entered the hotel on the four previous times he had stayed there, driving
down a small road to a more private area off to the side.  The moment the
limo came to a stop the door was opened for him, Jon climbing out
tentatively as a pit began to form in the depths of his stomach.  He walked
through the small, plush lobby and stood in front of the gold elevator doors
that would take him to the private floor where his suite was located.  Even
though Jack kept on speaking and Jon knew that the words were meant for him,
he found himself completely unable to understand a single one.  When the
elevator chime went off and the doors opened, it took every ounce of
concentration for Jon to force his legs to carry him in.  The elevator doors
closed with a kind of finality that left Jon shaking.  He wiped away the
sweat on his brow with the back of his hand.

	Slowly, as though time had somehow been stretched like taffy on a pulling
machine, the elevator climbed into the sky.  He couldn't stop shaking, his
hands trembling as the realization set in that this time, the moment was
truly upon him.  Somewhere at the end of this ride, Elliott was waiting for
him.  Ok, he told himself, go over the plan one more time, just to make
sure.  Smile, wave, walk, hug, happy to meet you, eyes.  He repeated it over
three times in his head until he was yanked back from his meditation by the
elevator doors smoothly opening, the chime of their arrival ringing as loud
as a peal of thunder.  Mechanically, he followed Jack and the valet carrying
his suitcase down the wide hall, not paying any attention to the overstuffed
leather armchairs and small tables with their obligatory expensive lamps.
Wave, smile, walk, hug, happy to meet you, eyes, wave, smile, walk...

	Somehow, no matter how many times he'd watched those shows on the Travel
Channel, the ones where he had drooled over the indulgences afforded to
elite high rollers in Vegas, he wasn't prepared when Jack threw the double
doors open at the end of the hallway with a little flourish.  The opulence
spread out before him was simply breathtaking, Jon's mantra trailing off as
he stared open-mouthed at the cavernous room.  The crystal chandelier
hanging from the twenty foot ceilings, the marble floors, the exotic wood
walls, the rare rugs on the floor, the full sized pool table to the right
and the shimmering ebony grand piano to the left, the elegant furniture,
warm gas fireplaces blazing on either side of the room...

	It was at that moment that all the luxury Jon had ever been able to imagine
in one place held no interest any longer as his eyes fixed on the figure
leaning casually against the wall, partially obscured by the shadows cast by
the fire.  Jon's breath caught in his throat, his heart began to pound,
every sound in the room suddenly silenced by the rushing of blood through
his ears.  He watched paralyzed as the figure pulled away from the wall,
stepping fully into the warm light.  A boy, just shy of five feet tall, his
sandy blonde hair combed neatly.  Freckles were scattered across pale skin
of his face, haphazardly arranged as though they had been plastered there
randomly by some freak explosion.  Gold-rimmed glasses with round lenses
were perched on his small nose, not obscuring his face but accenting it
perfectly.  He wore an expensive looking blue blazer, a finely knit white
sweater, beige slacks, and impeccably shined brown leather shoes.  The boy's
face broke into an honest, open, and just slightly mischievous grin.

	Elliott, Jon tried to whisper, but no sound came out.  Every detail of his
carefully rehearsed plan were irrevocably wiped from his memory as he stood
completely still, not even daring to breathe.   The boy began to cross the
room at a casual and even pace while Jon stared, unable to form a coherent
thought.  Their eyes met, and as he grew closer Jon gasped as he stared into
the most dazzling hazel orbs he had ever seen.   Before he had even
realized, Elliott had crossed the room and was standing right in front of
Jon, looking up into his face, his calm manner a sharp contrast to Jon's
rabbit-like twitching.  Their eyes remained locked for a moment, and then
without a word Elliott wrapped his arms gently around Jon, not the tentative
embrace of strangers but the confident and knowing warmth of long-lost
friends reunited.  As much as Jon told himself to hug the boy in return, he
couldn't find the strength to reciprocate.  It didn't seem to bother
Elliott, who held the embrace tightly for a long time even though Jon's arms
hung limp and useless at his side.  The boy finally pulled away and looked
back into Jon's eyes.

	"Hungry?" he said in that bright voice that Jon loved so dearly.  He barely
managed an imperceptible nod.  "C'mon, let's go get something to eat."
Elliott turned, picking up a long cashmere coat from a nearby chair that Jon
had completely overlooked earlier.  He looked at Jon, his eyes sparkling.
"Ready?"
Jon managed a small nod again.  His hand began to move of it's own accord,
and as Elliott walked by he reached out and grasped the boy's hand.  Elliott
stopped for a moment, looking down at Jon's hand clasping his, and then
squeezed back gently with a warm smile.  Elliott leaned into Jon's side,
resting his head against Jon's chest, and spoke, his words soft and tender.

	"I'm really glad you're here."